Gentlemen of Cambridge
by headlesshessian
Summary: "I've had dreams of London all of my life," Sherlock confesses abruptly. The blond man nods contemplatively, seeming to accept his words. AKA Sherlock and John meet outside a bar before John's due to ship out to Afghanistan. T for language.


Blame the Vampire Weekend song "Ladies of Cambridge" for this. Title really has little to do with the setting.

* * *

Sherlock takes a drag from the cigarette, practically feeling the nicotine hit, despite knowing that it would take a few more minutes before the chemical is absorbed into his bloodstream, just like his earlier alcohol had.

A few feet away from him, a man years older than him stretches up against the cold wall. Despite the man standing in the shadows, Sherlock can tell his hair is a dirty blond, and from the way his coat stretches across his shoulders, that he's some sort of athlete. That or the coat is just truly ill-fitting and the man has no time or money to buy another; but Sherlock catches a glimpse of taut muscles beneath the sleeves and tosses that theory. The man's wrists scrape against the graffiti and he sighs, before looking longingly over at Sherlock and his cigarette.

"Can you spare a fag?" the man asks, stepping into the light, and _oh, what blue eyes you have,_ Red Riding Hood said to the wolf.

_No, no I can't, _Sherlock thinks,_ I've got three left in this pack and I've got to make them last until I can get to London._

"I suppose I can," he says magnanimously, shocking himself by gesturing for the man to come closer. Shaking his head somewhat, he puts it off to being tipsy and vows not to drink anything when he goes back into the pub. Sherlock doesn't know which he regrets more, going to Cambridge for school or leaving the Cambridge campus for the party some acquaintance of Victor's was throwing. Victor was rumored to be there, and he indeed was: drunk off his arse, leaving Sherlock to take a long walk back to his dorm, or pay for a cab with money he'd much rather spend on cigarettes.

Rolling his eyes at his admittedly poor decision, Sherlock takes a better look at the man. In the light, Sherlock can tell the man is younger than he thought. Younger as in, _is this bloke old enough to legally drink yet? _

"Thanks, mate," he says as Sherlock pulls a cigarette from a case. The man's eyes stay focused on Sherlock's fingers for a moment, before he takes the slim stick from the violinist and drags his eyes back to Sherlock's face. Sherlock, in an unexpected display of charity, pulls out his lighter and flicks it open, waiting for the man to light his cigarette before returning to his original contemplative pose beneath the street lamp.

"You come here often, then?" the man asks, looking over to Sherlock and smiling almost shyly after exhaling a puff of smoke.

"I won't in a few weeks, I'm going to London and getting out of here," Sherlock answers on autopilot. Somewhere inside, something crumbles. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up; of course this one would be as dull as the rest.

"Is it because you like London, or because you just hate it here?" the man asks around his cigarette, smiling slyly. Sherlock turns his head sharply, watching the man with intent quicksilver eyes. _Not so dull, then._

"It's none of your business," Sherlock snaps.

Rather than huffily stomping out his cigarette as Sherlock thought he might, the man laughs lazily and leans further against the wall. "Suppose it's not. Just trying to make conversation, mate."

Sherlock angrily puffs out another breath of smoke, settling uncomfortably against the wall again. The man only glances over at him once. The rest of the time, he seems to be staring up at the sky.

"I've had dreams of London all of my life," Sherlock confesses abruptly. The blond man nods contemplatively, seeming to accept his words. Immediately, Sherlock feels regret crawl across his skin. He coughs on the smoke, muttering, "I don't know why I said that," like it's a shameful secret.

"No worries, mate. I'm shipping out to Afghanistan in a week," the man says in response, like it's no big deal. "There, now we've both tossed out complete non-sequiturs."

The level of interest Sherlock has for this man grows slightly. If a somewhat handsome, tipsy sports player like this one can use the term "non-sequitur" correctly, there's hope for the human race yet.

"Leaving anyone behind?" Sherlock asks casually, not really caring. He isn't, or at least hasn't since about half an hour ago, when he came outside, kicked a trash can, cursed a girl's name, and began to laugh at himself.

"I was. She goes to Cambridge, and I was here visiting her. Then I came back from the loo and found her snogging my mate," the man says, staring up at the night sky again.

"I'm… sorry," Sherlock says, the word tasting strange in his mouth.

The man shrugs. "Better now than when I get my first letter back saying 'Dear John, Please don't write to me anymore, I'm seeing Rob.'"

Something about that sentence piqued his interest a bit. "Is your name really John?"

The man laughs, nearly doubling over against the wall from the force of it. It was somehow contagious, and Sherlock found himself giggling as well.

"It is. John, John H. Watson, at your service."

Taking inspiration from that book Victor was reading before Sherlock broke up with him, Sherlock gives a bow and says, "Sherlock Holmes, at yours."

The man- John, _John_ apparently understands the reference and bestows a blinding grin upon Sherlock. "Well, thanks for the fag and the conversation, Sherlock Holmes."

Although Sherlock isn't in the habit of practicing social conventions, he usually understands when they're being used. His eyes widen in slight alarm, and he immediately asks, "You're not leaving _now_, are you?"

" 'Course not," John says with a lazy smile, a mischievous gleam back in his blue eyes, "I just thought I'd thank you. I've had a much better time out here with you than if I'd stayed in there to listen to Em's apologies."

There's something in his look or tone that Sherlock can't name, but he picks up on it anyways. "This isn't the first time she's cheated."

John looks a little surprised, the question, "How'd you know?" sliding easily out of his mouth.

If that's not a cue for Sherlock to show off, he doesn't know what is.

"When you came out here, you kicked a rubbish bin and cursed this Em, who would logically be your girlfriend, multiple times. It was quite a racket, but you only kicked the bin once and you didn't use any creative epithets when damning Emily or Emmiline or Emma or whatever her proper name is. That could either demonstrate that you have little imagination when it comes to curses, or that you were exhausted. But then you started laughing, which implies that you found this funny. But there's nothing funny about a girl cheating on you, so this has happened before and you were resigning yourself to the end of the relationship," Sherlock finishes.

John is gaping at him, ash collecting on the edge of his cigarette.

"Might want to flick that off, John," Sherlock can't help adding, despite the odd sense of nervousness he feels. It's almost like John is a judge of his abilities, which is utterly _ridiculous_ but _still, _a little worrying nonetheless, and he taps his foot on the ground nervously until-

"Brilliant!" John exclaims, shaking off his stupor and taking two steps closer to Sherlock so that they're barely a foot away from each other. "That was absolutely_ spot on_, how did you know all of that? You couldn't possibly have guessed!"

"It was merely observation," Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off.

"Observation? I can see that you're ridiculously good-looking and most likely wealthy, but I sure as hell can't figure out why you're out here or your relationship status just by _looking_ at you!"

Unwillingly, Sherlock's cheeks pink, and he looks away. "It's a talent that I've dedicated myself to my entire life, and after a while it becomes second nature. It's easy, really."

"Brilliant," John repeats, "Absolutely brilliant. I really _was _resigned to the fact that she'd probably cheat while I was away, but Em is-_was _a brilliant writer and I was hoping for some interesting letters while I was overseas," he sighs. "Bit selfish of me, I know, but I thought we could work something out."

"You are a hopeless romantic," Sherlock snorts, finally dropping his almost-finished cigarette and stamping it out.

"How'd you know?" John asks wryly, taking a final drag off his own cigarette before rubbing it into the dirt.

"You want to write letters. You're a fan of written correspondence; you think it's charming and old-fashioned, and if you're going to be stationed in Afghanistan you want something that reminds you of home as well as something interesting to read. I don't imagine there's too many English bookstores in Kabul," Sherlock responds, allowing himself a satisfied smirk.

"Well, Em was my best bet, and most of my rugby mates are utter shite at letter-writing, so it looks like I'm out of luck anyways," John laughs, "But once again, that was spot on!"

"I know," Sherlock says, and looks down at the still-grinning John. "I suppose… I could write to you, if you'd like?"

John's smile slides off his face, leaving him with a look of surprise and amazement. Once again, Sherlock feels mortally embarrassed and immediately regrets asking.

"Forget it, I don't know why I said that either," he attempts, before John is grinning again.

"No, no, don't take it back now! I'd love to get a letter from you, it'd probably be a fascinating read!" John's bright blue eyes are alight, and although there's a part of Sherlock screaming that _he's lying, no one ever finds you fascinating, _a larger, incredibly flattered part wins out and Sherlock smiles in return.

"Shall I write down an address for you, then? I've already got a flat lined up for when I get to London," he asks, and John nods enthusiastically, digging around his pockets for a pen.

Sherlock shakes his head, pulls out a small notebook and pen, and writes down _Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, LONDON, c/o M. Hudson _in neat, legible print, offering the notebook and pen to John when he's finished. John accepts it with a bright, disarming smile, tearing out the page and neatly folding it into quarters before pressing it into his pocket. In return, he scrawls _JOHN H. WATSON _and a mobile number underneath it on the next page before handing the book back to Sherlock.

"It'll be inactivated when I'm in Afghanistan because the phone bill would be bloody awful and I don't think I'll be taking calls while I'm getting shot at, but I figure if we're going to be correspondents I might as well include it, yeah?" John's cheeks are flushed as well by this point, and he laughs nervously.

"Thank you, John," is all Sherlock can say before the back door John came into the alley from opens with a clatter.

"Johnny-boy! John, we've been lookin' all over for ya'! C'mon back, we're toasting… we're toasting… toast?" A red-headed man smiles drunkenly at John before noticing Sherlock. "Oh! Oh, Johnny-boy, you're havin' a snog! Sorry, sorry, so sorry, hahaha! I'll just leave you be, c'me in when you're ready!"

John has flushed as red as a traffic light and remains silent as the door closes. Sherlock cannot restrain a snicker.

"Did he think I was an extraordinarily tall girl?" Sherlock asks, despite being pretty damn sure that's not the case.

"No, I'm bi," John mutters under his breath, "But either way, I probably should get back to them." He looks reluctant to leave Sherlock though, and if Sherlock was being honest with himself, he was reluctant as well.

"I'll await your letter, then, John," Sherlock says, forcing his lips into a smile.

That's all it takes for John, who smiles brilliantly once more. "I look forward to writing it, Sherlock. It was wonderful meeting you."

"You as well," Sherlock says, letting John go with a reluctant clap on the shoulder.

John nods sharply, before turning and making to go back through the doors. Sherlock settles himself back on the wall underneath the street lamp, wondering privately when John's first letter will come, when he hears sudden footsteps.

He turns back down the alleyway just in time to see John, blushing with a determined expression, striding up to him. "Thanks for everything, Sherlock," he says, before placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, standing on his tiptoes, and kissing Sherlock's cheek.

"Don't get shot," Sherlock instructs, replying on autopilot and fighting the urge to touch his cheek, which he's certain is probably burning red by now.

"I'll try," John says, grinning mischievously once more before slipping back into the shadows. He leaves Sherlock standing in an alley, underneath a street lamp, much like the way he was standing little more than a half-hour ago when John came clattering out cursing this Em girl. Yet, the stars above seem brighter somehow.

Sherlock puts it down to the night getting later, feels for his notebook now with John's number, and goes to hail a cab, money be damned, with a slight smile on his face.

* * *

First finished fic for BBC Sherlock. I'm proud. Cross-posted on my tumblr.

EDIT: modified the setting a little, thank you anonymous reviewer. And thanks to everyone else who has been so wonderful in reviewing this! There may or may not be a few letters as a sequel. I make no promises.

EDIT #2: the sequel, **between the sounds of the night, **has been posted and I'm writing/updating it while I can. Thank you everyone for reviewing!


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